


there will be a day when you can say you're okay and mean it

by MagicaLyss



Series: Bluer Than The Sky (Whumptober 2019) [4]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt Harley Keener, Hurt Peter Parker, Inspired by Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Non-Graphic Violence, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Protective Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaLyss/pseuds/MagicaLyss
Summary: Days 4 and 5 of Whumptober - Human Shield and Gun PointBrooklyn Nine-Nine AU“Not only did you spend ninety-six hours in the precinct,” the captain continues like Peter hadn’t said anything. “I checked through all the footage. You barely ate, you drank thirty-six cups of coffee, you slept for exactly twenty minutes over the ninety-six hours. At your desk. Do you even understand how bad that is?”“Careful, Cap,” their sergeant, Maximoff, speaks up, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. “You’re starting to sound a little too much like a dad.”“Captain Stark, if I may-”“No, you may not do anything. You’re taking the day off. Go home, Parker. Please,” Captain Stark says, eyes suddenly tired. “Go home.”





	there will be a day when you can say you're okay and mean it

**Author's Note:**

> -May's Dead Prior to this   
-Gun Violence  
-Non-graphic depictions of violence  
-Swearing (Mostly Harley)

  
“Detective,” Harley greets from the front desk, barely looking up from his computer. Not that he’s working, Peter knows he’s playing a game or maybe watching something on Netflix.  
  


“Mister Keener,” Peter replies, tipping his head in acknowledgement as he makes his way towards the Captain’s quarters. “He busy?”  
  


Harley finally looks up, blue eyes sparkling under the fluorescent lights. “Yeah, on a call, I think. But he wants to talk to you. He’s not happy.”  
  


Rolling his head back with a long sigh, Peter nods. Of course he isn’t happy. Peter’s going to be the reason everyone has another one of those obligatory Self-Care Seminars about how you can’t always put work before yourself. They’ve had about six of those since Peter’s started working as a detective.  
  


“Yeah, Boss nearly blew a gasket when Harley told him what happened,” one of Peter’s coworkers speaks up. It’s Detective Jones from her desk. Her leather jacket squeaks against the chair as she drags herself to her feet, face set in nonchalance and carelessness.  
  


“You told him?” Peter gasps, spinning on Harley.  
  


“I’m his _assistant_! I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t,” Harley says, rolling his eyes. “Plus, nobody really had to tell him. It’s kind of obvious.  
  


“You stayed in the precinct for ninety-six hours.”  
  


It’s the drawling voice of the captain, full of sarcasm and obvious anger. Right behind Peter.  
  


The young detective spins around, shoulders slumping. There’s no getting out of this now.  
  


“I know, Captain. I’m sorry,” Peter tries.  
  


“Not only did you spend ninety-six hours in the precinct,” the captain continues like Peter hadn’t said anything. “I checked through all the footage. You barely ate, you drank _thirty-six _cups of coffee, you slept for exactly twenty minutes over the ninety-six hours. At your desk. Do you even understand how bad that is?”  
  


“Careful, Cap,” their sergeant, Maximoff, speaks up, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. “You’re starting to sound a little too much like a dad.”  
  


“Captain Stark, if I may-”  
  


“No, you may not do anything. You’re taking the day off. Go home, Parker. Please,” Captain Stark says, eyes suddenly tired. “Go home.”  
  


Peter’s gaze drops to the floor. He knows an order when he hears one, but he’s sleep-deprived and he wants them to understand, at least just a little bit.  
  


“I caught them,” Peter says, swallowing thickly. He keeps his gaze on the floor, curls falling over his eyes. His hair is greasy and longer than he likes to keep it.  
  


Tony sighs. “I know you did, Parker. Trust me, we all know. And if this is some weird way to prove you’re a good detective-”  
  


“It’s not,” Harley says, speaking up from his desk. He hasn’t moved, but everyone around the floor is at least partially tuned in to their conversation. Even Detective Jones has stopped moving, watching them carefully.  
  


“Do enlighten me, Harley,” Tony says, turning on his personal assistant. “Why does our fine detective here put him through so much bullshit if not for recognition?”  
  


Peter can’t help but flinch, hearing his captain swearing in front of all of them. It seems unprofessional.  
  


“He just wants to catch the bad guys.”  
  


It’s the easiest answer in the world, but it’s truer than anybody would like to admit. Peter _needs _to catch the bad guys or else he’s sure he’ll crumble with every new crime he sees in Queens.  
  


There’s a long few moments of silence, before Tony sighs again.  
  


“Go home,” he repeats to Peter. “We’ll all be here when you get back. I’ll even make it a paid sick day, if you’re worried about money.”  
  


Peter’s chin wobbles, hands clenching at his sides. They still don’t understand. No matter how many times he tries to explain to them that he has a reason to do what he does. But he won’t cry and he won’t defy orders. The last thing he needs is for everyone to think he’s more of a child than they already do. As the youngest detective, at a mere twenty-three-years-old, Peter can’t afford to look childish.  
  


“I’ll drive you. C’mon,” Harley says, more gently than Peter feels he deserves. The man stands, tall and lanky, and all legs and not enough torso to match. He’s the only one who doesn’t have a dress code to follow, wearing a flannel and jeans.  
  


“My car-”  
  


“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning too.”  
  


Harley’s hands are gentle on his elbows. He’s normally a douche, a sarcastic smart-mouthed southern jerk to everyone around him. Peter must look really pathetic to be getting such nice treatment from Harley, not that Peter really minds the sweetness.  
  


“See you tomorrow, Parker,” Jones calls out. Followed by quick goodbyes and get well soons from Maximoff and Thompson and Lang, and Leeds when he gets out on the elevator.  
  


Harley’s car is warm and beat-up, like he’s had it for way too long. The gas is running low, but Harley refuses Peter’s offer to pay for gas. There’s a little green air freshener tree hanging from the mirror.  
  


“You okay?”  
  


Peter looks up, startled by the sudden noise in the otherwise silent place as Harley starts driving towards Peter’s apartment.  
  


“I, uh, Yeah, I’m okay,” Peter says, tears in his eyes betraying him. He doesn’t know why he’s so emotional. He supposes putting himself through what he did over the past four days is enough to do it. “I just- I’m tired.”  
  


Harley nods. “Why do you do that to yourself?”  
  


“You said it yourself, I have to catch the bad guys.”  
  


The words hang in the air, caught between them and Peter wonders if the warm air pushing out of the vents made them fly away, before Harley answers.  
  


“But why?” Harley’s hands are clenched around the wheel, a little too tightly for Peter’s liking. He’s suddenly on high alert for potential danger from his coworker. “Why does it have to be _you_? Why do you have the responsibility to keep everyone but yourself safe?”  
  


“I am safe,” Peter says. “Maybe not… okay. But I’m safe.”  
  


Harley suddenly swerves onto the side of the road, turning to look at Peter properly. His blue eyes are alight with anger, jaw clenching.  
  


“Fine!” his voice is loud in the little car, but Peter suddenly doesn’t find himself scared of Harley. “Fine, okay, why does everyone else need to be okay, but you, Parker? What makes you different?”  
  


Peter’s silent as he tries to mull over an answer that’s both truthful and will calm the conversation.  
  


“For the love of fucking god, Peter,” Harley exclaims. His hands are back on the wheel, knuckles white. “Why do you work so fucking hard to get everyone else home to their families, but you don’t seem to give a shit whether or not you’ll get to go home to your family”  
  


“I don’t have a family to go home to,” Peter answers simply. He’s watching Harley carefully, like he’s waiting for Harley to break and attack him, even if rationally he knows Harley’s a good person.  
  


“What about us?” Harley’s staring at Peter like everything is wrong, like it’s the end of the world. “What? You don’t think that _we _would miss you? You never, I don’t know, thought that maybe, just maybe, people fucking care about you?”  
  


“I’m sorry.”  
  


Harley sighs exasperatedly, but it seems like the anger’s left him. He shakes his head, eyes rolling as he pulls back onto the street and floors it.

  
*

They make it back to Peter’s apartment in record time. Barely fifteen minutes.  
  


Harley’s the middle of creatively threatening Peter if he were to come back to the precinct before at least twenty-four hours when Peter’s phone rings.  
  


“It’s Ned, one second,” Peter says, hushing Harley and answering the call.  
  


“I know it’s like your day off or whatever, but there’s a good chance we may need backup ASAP and you’re the closest person we’ve got. The next precincts over are on their way, but-” Ned’s cut off by the sound of gunfire. “I’ll text you the address.”  
  


“Shit, shit, shit. We gotta go. Start driving,” Peter says. The call ended as soon as Ned had finished speaking, almost immediately followed by a text from him with the address for a nearby warehouse.  
  


Harley doesn’t even question it, throwing the car into reverse at Peter’s urgency. They fly down the streets to Peter’s instructions, definitely breaking at least a few road rules, but Peter’s a detective and the rest of the precinct are probably at the warehouse already, so Peter doesn’t really care too much.  
  


It vaguely occurs to him, not even close to the top of his priorities, that he doesn’t have anything he’s supposed to bring out on missions. He’s wearing a loose long sleeve with jeans, his gun strapped to his side just in case, but no armor, no defense. He won’t have time to change when he gets there. He pushes it all down though. Whatever’s happening there is more important than changing into proper gear.  
  


Harley parks lopsided and half on the curb, but it’s good enough for Peter.  
  


“I won’t give you a ticket,” Peter says jokingly as he opens the door. “Either stay right where you are or go back to the precinct. You’re not a detective.”  
  


Harley mocks a salute and parks the car. “I’ll be here.”  
  


Sending him one final grin, probably one filled with exhaustion, adrenaline beginning to make its way through his body, Peter takes off.  
  


The other detectives are all huddled around the front entrance.  
  


“What’s our plan?” Peter asks quietly, taking a spot in the little circle. There’s not enough of them right now. Nowhere near enough to be safe if this is a big enough deal.  
  


“Parker around the back. I’ll take Maximoff through the front. Thompson and Jones on the West, and Lang and Leeds on the East. According to our sources there are at least four-armed people inside the building. Be safe,” Captain Stark instructs. He pushes an earpiece into Peter’s hand.  
  


“In position,” Maximoff says, waving her hand.  
  


Peter follows Cassie and Ned around the East side of the building, keeping close to the wall, gun in hand just in case it’s necessary. They both stop at the side door, but Peter continues all the way around the back of the building, turning on his earpiece.  
  


“Everyone in position?” Stark asks. There’s too much worry in his voice, it makes Peter’s heart race even faster.  
  


A chorus of Yes, Sir’s fill their earpiece. Maximoff counts down from three and on go, Peter kicks open the back door to the warehouse, the loud clanging noise making him flinch.  
  


A long, dark, empty corridor is laid ahead of him, doors on either side closed and quiet. He can hear the sounds of his other detectives across the warehouse, but he tunes them out, trying to find anyone else. According to the captain, there should be at least four people here.  
  


He keeps his gun up, body tense as he slowly moves down the hallway, tracking every noise and movement he sees around him. Nobody so far, just a rat.  
  


And then he hears a commotion behind him, where he’d just come in from. He ducks into one of the side rooms, peeking around the side of the wall. The light is pouring in from behind them, so they’re just dark silhouettes. Three of them.  
  


They turn into one of the rooms and Peter ducks after them. Briefly, he thinks about calling for backup, but figures they have things to deal with. At least one other man.  
  


So, he goes solo, carefully moving across the hall and peering into the room they went into.  
  


To say he’s horrified, is an understatement.  
  


Harley fucking Keener tied to a chair in the room, a gun pressed against his temple.  
  


He acts before he really thinks.  
  


“Hey!” he calls out, making himself known. “Pointing guns at people isn’t very nice. Especially regular civilian people.”  
  


One the men points a gun at Peter who puts his hands up. “Put your weapon down.”  
  


“Alright, alright. Suppose it would be hypocritical if I didn’t follow my own rule,” Peter continues as obnoxiously as he can, setting his gun down slowly on the floor.  
  


“Kick it away,” the second man says.  
  


Peter does at told, not because there’s a gun pointed at him, but because there’s still a gun pointed at Harley.  
  


“Parker, don’t be a fucking idiot-” Harley starts to say, but Peter quietly hushes him.  
  


“You have a gun against your head, let me do my job.”  
  


Harley looks like he wants to argue, but there’s not much he can argue with. And his wide, misty eyes aren’t doing much for his tough pretenses.  
  


“Let him go,” Peter says, turning to the two men. He tries to remember his negotiation tactics, but he doesn’t really have a lot to go off of. He doesn’t know anything about what’s happening. His coworkers are talking in his ear, but he can’t say anything without potentially killing not only Harley, but his other coworkers too, if they come to help him.  
  


“Why would we listen to you?” one man says, almost laughing.  
  


The other man does laugh. “On your knees, kid.”  
  


The concrete is cold and rough through his jeans. “Let him go. I don’t care what you do to me, leave him out of this.”  
  


“You’re really not in the position to be making requests,” the first man says. Peter decides to call him Bob to make him less intimidating and the other one John.  
  


John pushes the gun a little harder against Harley’s temple, making him flinch, eyes desperately trying to find a way out.  
  


“Take out the earpiece,” John says. “Off and out.”  
  


Bob steps on it the moment it’s on the ground, crushing it beneath his heavy boot.  
  


“You don’t have to do this,” Peter says. “Whatever your motivation is, it can be solved another way. You don’t have to kill anyone.”  
  


John laughs again. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, kid. You look like you should be a frat party, not trying to talk yourself out of death.”  
  


“I don’t care about me,” Peter repeats. “Just, please, leave him out of this.”  
  


It’s not about being a detective. It’s not about his job. It’s not about negotiating. It’s about Harley and the gun pressed against his temple.  
  


Harley looks about ready to cry, hands pulling at the ropes tying his wrists to the wooden chair. He knows the outcome of this. He knows how this all goes down if the other detectives don’t get to them in time.  
  


“That’s a pretty shitty cop move, ain’t it?” Bob says, gun moving with his hand gestures.  
  


Peter shouldn’t be moving, but he pulls the badge off his belt and tosses it to the ground in front of him. There are tears stinging his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall.  
  


“Not about being a cop,” Peter says. “About you taking the gun off him.”  
  


There are footsteps coming closer to them, down the long hallway.  
  


“We don’t want to kill anyone,” Bob admits suddenly. John looks about ready to turn the gun on him. “We just need some money.”  
  


“What was your plan here? What is all of this?”  
  


“You stupid, boy?” John leers, his free hand clenching into a fist. “Drugs. Ransom. Anything we could get our hands on. I’ve managed to pay off my sister’s tuition out of this warehouse.”  
  


Peter’s running out of time. John’s angry and he’s the one who has the gun on Harley. He’ll shoot if Peter doesn’t stop him, so the detective acts on pure instinct.  
  


He stands abruptly, trying his best to get all of the attention on him. Immediately, Bob’s gun is trained steadier, safety clicked off, but John’s weapon stays on Harley.  
  


So, in true self-sacrificial Peter Parker fashion, he throws himself at John.

  
*

When Peter comes to, he thinks he’s dead.  
  


Turns out, he isn’t dead, he would’ve maybe preferred it though, because immediately, there’s a lot of angry faces in front of him.  
  


“What the hell were you thinking?” Harley demands. He’s standing not very far away from Peter’s hospital bed, hands waving in anger. “You just- We only needed a few more minutes. You could’ve, I don’t know, stalled them? Instead, you _threw yourself at an angry armed man_! What the fucking hell was that?”  
  


“What Harley means to say is that you got shot, Peter.” Ned looks sad. Everyone’s there except for Captain Stark. “You got shot three times. You nearly _died _and we’ve all been worried sick.”  
  


“No, what he means to say is that you’re a fucking dumbass, Parker, and if you ever pull something like that again, _I _will be the one to shoot you,” Michelle says, arms crossed tightly over her chest. There are obvious tear-tracks down her face, but Peter won’t mention it.  
  


Cassie sighs. “Why would you do something like that? You could’ve called for help.”  
  


“We were all there, Parker. We were _right there _and you went in yourself and nearly died. Do you not trust us? Is this your ego coming into play?” Eugene demands, eyes blazing with anger.  
  


“Let’s not bombard Parker with all of this right now. He only just woke up,” Captain Stark says, appearing in the doorway. “Go clean yourselves up, you can come visit him tomorrow.”  
  


Everyone looks ready to argue, but the Captain isn’t someone to argue with, so in the end, they all leave with quiet wishes good luck.  
  


Stark sits beside Peter’s bed.  
  


“Quentin and Adrian got three shots in. Adrian got on in your shoulder blade, Quentin got one in your side and one in your hip. The one in your side very narrowly missed severely damaging your liver. I don’t know how much biology you know, but that wouldn’t have been a good thing.”  
  


“I’m sorry,” Peter says. It’s a lie. He’s not really all too sorry. Not much regret. Maybe he regrets not getting Harley out faster.  
  


Stark sighs. “I’m not talking to you Captain to Detective. I’m talking to your friend to friend here. Why?”  
  


“Why what?”  
  


“Why can’t you understand that you mean something?” There are tear tracks on his face too, bloodshot puffy eyes and wet eyelashes. “You mean a lot. We’re family now. Our little group out there. We’re a family. You, me, Cassie, Michelle, Ned, Harley, Eugene, Wanda. We’re family and I just- I can’t understand how you don’t see that.”  
  


Peter swallows thickly, pushing himself up a little bit. It sends searing pain through his body, but he pushes it down as much as he can.  
  


“I haven’t had a family in over a decade,” Peter admits quietly. He blames the tears burning his eyes on the medications and the pain. “I don’t know what that means. I don’t- All I know, is that I saw Harley there with a gun against his head and I couldn’t- I couldn’t let that happen.”  
  


“I get that, but Peter,” Stark never refers to him as Peter, “you need to understand that we don’t want anything to happen to you either. If something went south, that wouldn’t be your fault. You’re not the one who would’ve pulled the trigger.”  
  


Peter shoves himself up a little higher, ignoring the pain in favor of the anger that blossoms.  
  


“I might as well have!” His bottom lip is trembling and he doesn’t want to break down in front of his captain.  
  


“What happened?” Tony’s voice is too soft and just that alone is nearly enough to push Peter over the edge to a breakdown. “What happened that made you feel like everything is your fault?”  
  


“My parents died when I was five. Plane crash. Left me with my aunt and uncle. My uncle died when I was twelve. I was- I was there when it happened. He got shot. Armed robbery. I should’ve done something, I just- I froze, and my uncle did it to protect me. But he- he didn’t make it. Police were about thirty minutes late.”  
  


The tears are cold and salty as they slide down his face, but he makes himself look up at Stark who has one of those awfully pitying expressions on his face.  
  


“If they had just gotten there earlier. If they- If _I _had done _something_. Maybe- Maybe it wouldn’t have gone down the way it did. Maybe my uncle would be around. Maybe my aunt wouldn’t have gotten drunk and crashed the car. Maybe I would’ve spent time being a kid. Maybe I could’ve had a family.”  
  


“You have one now,” Tony says instead of anything else. “And you nearly lost that today.”  
  


Peter glares at Tony through his tears, breath hitching with the lump in his throat. “What was I supposed to do? Let Harley die? I couldn’t-”  
  


Tony’s hand is warm and calloused over Peter’s on the bed, a gentle weight. Grounding. “I didn’t say that. I just mean, maybe, using yourself as a human shield wasn’t the way to go.”  
  


The silence that follows is suffocating.  
  


“What am I supposed to do?” Peter finally asks, tears cutting down his face. “How do I fix this? How do I fix myself?”  
  


But Tony smiles, squeezing Peter’s hand. “Start by taking a break. Rest up. Let us take care of you. We all love you, kid. Let us.”  
  


“Okay,” Peter whispers.  
  


And Tony’s smile widens like Peter hung the stars in the sky. “Okay. Go to sleep before everyone else comes back angrier than before.”  
  
  
  
  



End file.
